Disclaimer for social media: This is historical fiction for entertainment only.

Any resemblance to living persons is accidental. Resemblance to current events is pure imagination. Interaction with actual history is sheer conjecture. (The rest of us already knew this, right?)

          “Hey, hey, ho, ho, old slave owners got to go!”  Mackenzie joined the chant with all the air she could muster behind her face covering. 

          Yesterday, all her college friends had met at the park behind her house.  Half of them painted “I can’t breathe” across a box of black paper masks.  The other half had painted “Black Lives Matter” placards for today’s event, which was entirely organized on Twitter.  But Mackenzie had to admit the mask was uncomfortable in the 90 degree heat of Southern California.  Especially in close quarters with a sea of other protesters. 

          An organizer with a bullhorn stepped up on a box on the curb and motioned for quiet.  “They say America is intolerant, and they’re right!” the young woman bawled into the raspy loudspeaker.  “We’re here to tear that down!  We will no longer tolerate these memorials to intolerant racists!  Today, we celebrate the Fourth of July by declaring OUR independence!”

          Cheers broke out, and Mackenzie joined enthusiastically.  “Take it down!  Take it down!” 

          The organizer was eventually able to continue.  “A hundred and fifty years ago, President Jefferson Davis said black Americans were inferior to white Americans.  Why do we still have streets named for him?”

          She pointed to the street sign hanging from the traffic signal above her, “Jefferson Canyon Rd.”  The chant resumed, “Take it down!” 

          Mackenzie leaned toward the young man standing next to her.  “Sean, isn’t that named for Thomas Jefferson?”

          His beard tickled her ear as he replied.  “What difference does it make?  He owned slaves, too!”

          She nodded.  Fifty feet in front of them, a nimble teen shimmied up the metal traffic pole and began pounding the street sign with a baseball bat.

          “Whoo!  You go!” Mackenzie cheered.  A bead of sweat formed under her nose, and she pinched her mask together to absorb it. 

          Suddenly, a single whoop from a police cruiser cut through the air a few feet behind Mackenzie.  A shot of adrenaline raced down her spine.  There was a brief lull as the crowd turned to face the police, and she took full advantage.

          “Sean,” she hissed, “I gotta get out of here, fast!  That’s my dad!” 

          He followed her gaze to the burly uniform holding a megaphone, just two rows of protesters away.  She looked around frantically, but there was no way to get through the crowd.

          “Start coughing!” Sean commanded.

          “What?”

          “Cough, Mac!”

          Mackenzie mustered a feeble cough.  Sean tapped their neighbor’s shoulder.  “COVID-19, let us through!”

          The person crowded backward, leaving them a few inches to sidle past.  As word spread, a path to the side magically opened.  Sean and Mackenzie coughed their way to the edge of the crowd and down the first alley they could find.  A dog barked behind a chain link fence, and Mackenzie threw her mask at him.  The roar of the crowd faded as they ran.  Two blocks over, they stopped for air.

          “I haven’t run that hard since high school PE,” Sean panted, ripping off his mask.  His round face was almost as red as his beard. 

          “That’s more of a workout than I usually get in black belt class,” Mackenzie admitted, rubbing her quads.  “You know everyone in that crowd has to go get tested for coronavirus now.”

          “True, but you didn’t run into your dad.  I’m thirsty.  I wonder if the coffee shop on Third is open.”

          “Too close to the protest.  I saw the whole street boarding up this morning.  We’ll have to find a drive-through across town.  My car is this way.”

*  *  *

          Mackenzie took a long pull at her straw.  Iced coffee in the shade was exactly what she needed today.  They had their pick of benches in the college quad.  The campus was closed, and everyone was protesting across town anyway.  An afternoon breeze wafted in from the ocean, ruffling the brown strands of hair on her neck that had escaped her ponytail.

          “At least the quad is still open,” Sean said, licking whipped cream from his mustache.  “Think we’ll have classes this fall?”

          “Online only, I bet.  This weekend has been fun.  I’ve missed everybody.”

          Sean stood up and waved, and a man sprinted across the quad toward them.  He tossed his briefcase on the ground and knelt on it.

          “Hey, you two.  I thought you were at the protest.”

          “Had to bug out when my dad showed up,” Mackenzie said, fishing a plain white mask out of her pocket.  “Weren’t you there, Nik?”

          “Never mind about the mask – I’m young enough not to care, and we are outside.  I left the protest when the Channel 4 news crew showed up.  My union contract says professors can’t be part of public demonstrations.”

          “I bet they wouldn’t care this time,” Sean volunteered.

          Nik laughed.  “I’m sure you’re right, but I already have three years invested in my 401(k) that I would rather not risk.  So I came to set up my Zoom class for Monday.”  The professor ran a hand through his thinning, shoulder-length hair, as if doing so would tame the unruly blond locks.  “What’s up with your dad, Mac?”

          “Um, he’s the chief of police,” she said sourly.

          “I know, but didn’t he say on the news last night that he supports peaceful protests?”

          “Yeah,” Sean said.  “But I guess he figured it was over the top when the baseball bat came out.  Even if the guy was only hitting the sign.”

          Mackenzie rolled her eyes.  “You should have heard Dad go off when he found out the protests were going on over Jefferson Canyon Road.  He and Mom started quoting the Declaration of Independence to each other.  And when I told them the Declaration didn’t matter if America never lived up to it, boy, you should’ve heard the fireworks start!  I wouldn’t dare tell Dad I was part of the protests.  I’d have to find an apartment across town.”

          “Well, I’m proud of both of you,” Nik said.  “Where Mac’s parents won’t make it past their white privilege, you two have stepped up to confront it head-on.”

          “I just wish there was something else we could do.  I mean, how can I say I’m fighting for social justice when I can’t even convince my parents there’s a problem?  I wish we could cancel the Declaration of Independence.”

          “Why, because your dad quotes it so much?”  Sean slurped up the last of his mocha cream latte.

          “No, it’s because he quotes it whenever I mention all the bad things America has done.  Taking World History last semester really opened my eyes to a global point of view.”

          Nik stood up and took a bow.  “Why, thank you very much.  I’m glad my hard work preparing classes paid off.  But, did you mean it?”  Met by blank stares, he added, “About canceling the Declaration, I mean.”

          “I guess.  But how?”  Mackenzie opened the top of her cup and shook a piece of ice into her mouth. 

          “I’ll show you tonight.  Brown bag it at my place at six?”

          “Sure.  Let’s go, Sean.  We can make sandwiches at my house.  Dad won’t be home until late, and Mom will be on a Zoom Bible study.” 

          “I forgot your parents were religious freaks.  Sure glad you turned out okay!”

*  *  *

          Mackenzie always wondered why Nik even had a garage.  He kept his Prius plugged in by the kitchen door, under a canvas carport. 

          “One good windstorm, and that carport is a goner,” Sean teased.

          “I keep an eye on my weather app.”  Nik knelt to wrestle with the combination lock.  “Help me open this.”  The old wood door took two people to lift.  Mackenzie ducked under, and the men closed the door.  Inside was a metal frame the shape of an ancient sleigh.  A decaying chair sat behind some levers along the dashboard, and a satellite dish was mounted behind it.

          “Where are the reindeer?” she asked, eyeing the cracked leather and discolored chrome.

          “Well, there’s Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen,” Sean sang.  “But isn’t that a bit too Western European for you, Nik?”

          Nik laughed.  “True that.  But if you remember H.G. Wells from your English Lit class, it’ll all start to make sense.”

          “Who?”  Sean looked puzzled.

          “Didn’t he write The War of the Worlds?” Mackenzie volunteered.  “I saw a documentary about how it was made into a radio play and freaked everyone out.”

          Nik sighed.  “Looks like I have a lot of ground to cover.  Pull up a chair and let’s eat.”  He pointed to a stack of folding metal chairs, which squeaked terribly when they were opened.  The trio sat and opened their sack lunches.

          “Ok, class is in session,” Nik began.  “In 1895, H.G. Wells published a book called The Time Machine.  His Traveler went forward almost a million years in time and came back to relate all his misadventures, from the downfall of humanity to the end of the earth.  Afterward, he told a friend that he was going on another adventure and would be back in fifteen minutes.  Three years later with no word, his friend figured the Traveler wasn’t coming back and the book ended.  I always assumed it was a work of fiction, until I found this machine in a canyon off I-10.”

          “Wait,” Mackenzie almost forgot the sandwich she was holding.  “You’re saying this is a working time machine?”

          A sly smile spread across Nik’s face.  “How else do you think I’ve been researching my doctoral thesis on the Edward Tudor, the child king?  Apparently, the Traveler figured out how to control his device through space as well as time, or it would never have gotten here from England.  But it still works, and that’s why I asked you to come over.  It’s within our power to fix history!

Footnotes for chapter 1 can be found here.

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Copyright © 2020 by Carolyn Van Gorkom

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except as provided by USA copyright law.

Cover illustration: cropped flag from a larger oil painting by Ferris, Jean Leon Gerome, Artist. Betsy Ross,/ J.L.G. Ferris. , ca. 1932. Cleveland, Ohio: The Foundation Press, Inc., July 28. Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/2002719536/.  Public domain.  No known restrictions on publication. No renewal in Copyright office, 11/91.